


Sequelae of the Stradivarius

by Ragazza_Guasto



Series: Bows and Badges [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Bisexual John, Dirty Talk, Fantasizing, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Male Prostitutes, Masturbation, Pavlovian response, Pining, Sherlock's Violin, Smut, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:06:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has taken to masturbating when Sherlock is playing the violin because he’s usually in the Mind Palace and sufficiently distracted. But now he’s having a Pavlovian response to violin music. Boners. Inappropriate boners.<br/>Or:<br/>Five times John and Sherlock enjoyed violin music separately and one time it brought them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spiccato

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a 5 + 1 fic. It didn't start out that way but, as with most of my stuff, I have no control over the outcome.  
> Feel free to comment, I love feedback. Love, love, love it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts John off on his journey to discovery, but he's not quite quick on the uptake. To him it's all fun and games in Wankland. A little threeway fantasy never hurt anybody.
> 
> Spiccato- A controlled bouncing or spring bow off the strings, flexible fingers and wrist are a must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but hopefully fun. Enjoy.

They say men think about sex roughly twenty times a day. John didn't think that was true, and even if it were, he certainly wasn't thinking about it the first time 'The Incident' occurred. He had been thinking, guiltily, about the fact that he had once again forgotten to take the cloth sack to Tesco and he was carting four plastic bags that were going to go right into the bin. Harry would be horrified. He was trudging up the stairs with his load of groceries when it happened. Suddenly he was sporting half a wide on. He frowned down at his crotch in confusion, certain he was mistaken about his tumescent state, but sure enough, yes, he was slowly filling out his pants. _What in God's name is going on with you?_ He thought. Baring morning erections, he hadn't gotten hard for no reason in years. Possibly a full decade. _Nothing for it_ , he thought, _hopefully it'll go away on its own._ He'd continued up the stairs, grocery bags held conveniently in front, just in case Sherlock was paying attention. Not likely considering he had been playing the violin, a past time that clearly meant he was thinking, and he knew he was deep in the Mind Palace because he was playing beautifully. He had smiled to himself as he put the groceries away, pleased with the turn of events. As long as he was sporting an erection, he could at least get some use out of it. It had made itself more aggressively known as he had tidied the kitchen and since Sherlock was preoccupied...

"I'm making lasagna for dinner," he tested the waters. If he received a hum it meant Sherlock was passingly aware of his surroundings. Nothing from the Maestro. He smirked and headed to the bedroom.

He wished he had known when Sherlock had started playing, then he'd be able to more accurately gauge how long he had to work with. Generally he had anywhere from twenty minutes to three hours when Sherlock was like this. He factored in the variables; no case, that meant an experiment, at it for at least a half hour if he was receiving no response, playing something complex meant he was deep into his own mind, it took thought to play terribly, as he was wont to do when feeling antagonistic. A chuckle escaped as he shed his trousers. How proud Sherlock would be to hear his deductions on wank likelihood. But, after all, he'd learned these things out of necessity. Living with a man like Sherlock was hell on his libido, not only because his habit of interrupting dates before they could go anywhere, but because privacy wasn't in the man's lexicon. There weren't any locks on the doors in 221B, making it difficult to find any kind of solitude for long. Once, in the early days, John had bolted a pad lock to the inside of his door, out of desperation, but when Sherlock set fire to the kitchen during a particularly stupid experiment he realized how badly an idea that had been. No, it had taken him months to work out when he could do this, be sufficiently alone long enough to wank at leisure. And this was it. Sherlock lost to the Mind Palace. Not only that, it was prudent to wait until he started playing the violin because then John could listen for his location in the flat. It wasn't enough to simply assume he was safe when his flatmate was laid out on the sofa, he'd learned that early on. John tended to get distracted when in the throes of a good wank and Sherlock had surprised him more than once under the assumption that he'd had enough time.

"Mmm," he hummed to himself as he was freed from the constriction of his trousers and pants. He stretched out, luxuriating in the release of the days tension. It had been two solid weeks since he'd last had himself in hand. A lazy stroke started him off, no rush, not just yet, and he relaxed into his own thoughts, patient to let the fantasy take it's course.

Their last case, a blackmail affair, dull Sherlock had said, had taken them to Notting Hill to investigate a wealthy business owner. While there John had been pretty useless, so for the most part he had hung back and let Sherlock get to it. A couple from the neighborhood had wandered over and they had stroke up an amiable conversation that had lasted for well over an hour. During that hour he'd learned that not only were they both veterans of Afghanistan, but they had admitted that they knew of Sherlock and John, had followed the blog with interest.

"So, you and Sherlock...," the man, Chris, had hinted after a while.

"No, just friends," he'd answered, no longer upset at having to explain.

"Ah," he noted and had smiled at his wife. "So unattached?"

John had smirked, remembering a similar conversation once upon a time. "Yes." He'd looked to the wife, Lynn, to gauge what she had thought of her husband trying to get a leg over with him. Ah, they both were. Interesting.

"We live just across the way there," he'd pointed to a flat with a green door, "if you would ever want to stop by...for a chat or..."

Now, in reality, that's when Sherlock had called him over to witness his brilliant deduction on the case, but in his fantasy he could do whatever the hell he wanted. Instead of thanking the couple for the offer and begging off, he rather enthusiastically took them up on the offer right then and there.

"Wonderful," Lynn would say. She would take him by the hand and tug him across the street, into their flat and straight into the bedroom. He knew how he wanted it to end and if he'd been in a hurry he would have gotten to it, but since he probably had at least a half hour, he let it play out slowly, savoring the foreplay. He conjured what he remembered of Lynn's physic, tall for a woman, svelte, still fit from the Army, ginger hair, blue eyes. Chris was still fit as well, perhaps a bit bigger than he usually went for but handsome with dark hair, still with the regulated haircut, and a nice trimmed beard. He pictured undressing Lynn first, while Chris undressed him from behind. Once everyone was sufficiently naked he would be led into bed. Thanks to the warm weather he knew Lynn had medium, apple sized breasts, perfectly suited to fit into his hand. He hummed to himself, picturing the way they would feel. Chris would still be behind him, laying wet kisses on his neck and shoulder. He should have taken them up on the offer. They wouldn't have blinked at his ridiculous tan or the bullet scar. Maybe he could still could take them up on it. Maybe sneak a message into the blog somehow. It seemed like a good idea in that moment, because the fantasy he had played out was really working for him.

He switched it up and suddenly he was on his back, Lynn above him as he fed from her, Chris at his cock, swallowing him down easily. He felt almost guilty thinking it but men really knew how to give good head. He was sure the same was true for women together as well. Of course, in his fantasy he was the best Lynn had ever had. Even in the depth of the fantasy, he had to smirk at himself.

He would stop Chris before the sucking finished him off. He wanted to be inside Lynn when it happened. Inside her with Chris as well, the feel of him close, just the thin walls of Lynn's body separating them. The thought brought him close, so he visualized it, conjured himself on his back, Lynn on top, facing away, Chris above her. He was too close to picture how they would have slowly entered her. He was already seeing Chris as he set the pace, pounding into her from above while John held steady. Lynn would be so vocal, crying out, yelling for her husband to fuck her harder. John would pull Chris's head down to kiss him as he obliged her. His motions became erratic, frantic, he was leaking heavily. He was getting closer. In his mind he took hold of Lynn's behind, lifted her up and slammed her back down hard. She cried out, Chris grunted and John shot his load hard over his fist and stomach. His uncontrolled outcry was thankfully overpowered by Sherlock's crescendo downstairs, he was sure if it had been quiet in the flat he would have been heard panting and whinging.

He looked down at his stomach. He'd spent all over his shirt. Damn.

It sounded like Sherlock had stopped playing so he only had a limited amount of time before he was ambushed. He was just getting up to change his clothes when Sherlock burst into the room.

"John, I figured-"

"Jesus Christ Sherlock!" He scrambled to cover himself properly. "Ever heard of knocking?"

Sherlock let out a very put upon sigh and rolled his eyes. "You're not sporting anything I haven't already seen."

"Yeah because you bloody well never wait to be invited in," he grumbled. "Get out so I can get dressed."

"If you'd just abstain from base urges like masturbation we wouldn't have this problem. I could teach you some relaxation techniques that Tibetan Monks use to-"

"Bloody get out of my room!" He threw a shoe. Sherlock dodged and, with the mentality of a six year old, stuck his tongue out before shutting the door behind him. John mumbled to himself about personal boundaries until he was fully dressed again.

"I'm making lasagna for dinner," he repeated as he walked into the kitchen, knowing that he hadn't heard the last time.

"All right."

"Are you going to eat tonight?"

"Eh," he shrugged.

John sighed. "I'm making a full serving because you act like you can't be bothered now but once you smell it you'll lean over my plate with those puppy dog eyes until I give you mine."

"I don't do that," he denied. John gave him a look. "I don't."

John was at once distracted by the way Sherlock was cleaning his bow, that up and down motion, so rhythmic and precise. He blinked several times before he could look away. _Good thing I just got off or that might have become awkward._

"You'll have a bit," he announced to his stubborn flatmate and went to the sink to wash his hands.

The familiar act of preparing the food lulled him for awhile. He let his mind wander a bit. Was he really serious about the Chris and Lynn thing? No, he didn't think so. It was a nice fantasy but the reality would be too complicated. Not to mention he'd had to be twice as careful about who he slept with nowadays, just because he was semi-famous. It was especially risky picking up blokes, since he wasn't out and would like to remain that way, at least in the foreseeable future. He already had to deal with people assuming he and Sherlock were a couple, if they knew he was bisexual it would be like handing out invitations to their wedding. That's how sure people would be.

He glanced over the kitchen, into the sitting room, to look at Sherlock. He was still cleaning the bow but his mind wasn't on the task any longer. He wished he could be open about all the aspects of his life, but he had already made Sherlock uncomfortable once before, he didn't want a repeat performance. Not to mention his family, how they would react. He got sick just thinking about it. While his parents hadn't been exactly cruel over his sister coming out, they hadn't been supportive either. And just thinking about what Harry would say... _'Stop copying me!'_ He could still hear her shrill voice, even after all these years. Some twins were inseparable and some were mortal enemies. John and Harry were the latter. No, he'd wait until everyone in his family was dead, then he'd tell the world how much he occasionally loved a good, hard cock.

He glanced at Sherlock again. Or maybe not. 

"So tell me about your experiment," he called out.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, coming out of his mind slowly.

"You were going to tell me something earlier."

"Oh yes. It's fascinating, John. You see..."

John listened, only half understanding what the Hell Sherlock was talking about, but his voice was pleasant and he enjoyed Sherlock's enthusiasm. He smiled while he cut the tomatoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss John in 221B. Can you tell?


	2. Staccato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself sporting another sudden erection. This time it makes it's presence known to his flatmate. How embarrassing.
> 
> Staccato- A light, short stroke with a period of silence between notes, varies according to tempo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short too, but the next four gather speed and grow in length as it goes. Just like another certain activity I could mention. *snicker*

The second time it happened, the catalyst had started in the sitting room. John was reading the new John Grisham novel in his chair, the least erotic thing in the world, other than perhaps being in a morgue while Sherlock berated Molly over Y incisions. It was quiet, Sherlock had been at the kitchen table with a soldering iron, a gold chain and a severed neck. Just the neck...

"I need more solder."

John didn't respond. He didn't think he'd needed to.

"I said, I need more solder." Louder this time.

John looked up from his book and stared at the wall. "Yes? And?"

"Well?"

"I'm sorry," he turned in his seat to look over his shoulder, "did you think I had some on me?"

Sherlock had scowled. "You do the shopping," he announced as if that made it John's responsibility.

He raised his eyebrows to convey, 'So?'

“I'll do the dishes," he offered.

“You'll do the dishes anyway," he commanded. “I've done them the last two hundred some odd days."

He smiled, fake as could be. “I'll do them. I promise."

John sighed. “Does a man's life depend on it?"

Sherlock looked down at the severed neck and back up. “Yes."

John was well aware of the fact that his scowl looked more like a smile. Damn the man. He slapped his book down. “You are a damn liar but I'll go anyway."

A real smile. "Thank you."

"Not because you told me to, mind, because we need tea and Mrs. Hudson asked me to pick up some laundry detergent next time I was out."

"Very good, John," he dismissed, already distracted with his neck decorating or whatever it was.

"You're a cock," he muttered as he slipped his shoes back on. After grabbing his phone and wallet he made his way out.

It didn't take long to find everything he needed at the shop but he decided to take his time, just to take in the evening air and clear his mind. Sometimes it occurred to him how completely insane his life was, moments like this one, when he was carrying tea(normal), detergent(normal) and solder so his flatmate could melt bits of gold to part of a corpse(not normal). He would occasionally wonder if he should be questioning his life choices but then he would be off running, blood hot and alive in his veins, and he would remember he'd never been happier since meeting Sherlock. As he neared 221, the quaint smile he wore dropped upon realizing he was sporting another erection.

"Okay, what is your problem?" He addressed his cock sternly. Was he sexually stimulated by shopping now?

"John, dear, are you all right?"

He glanced up to see Mrs. Hudson in the doorway, stepping down to the pavement . "Sorry." He smiled at her. "Thinking out loud."

"You're fine. Oh! You remembered my detergent. Aren't you a saint?" She took the bag from him.

"Hardly," he chuckled. Thankfully the erection was waning. "Off to Mrs. Turner's?"

"Yes," she grinned, "her sister-in-law is in town for a conference and we're going out for drinks."

He nodded. "Don't stay out too late."

She tittered. "Oh, hush." She set the detergent down on the side table and gave him a quick hug. "Oh, John," she called.

He turned with one foot on the stairs. "Yeah?"

"See what you can do about Sherlock and the violin. It's lovely of course but I might not feel the same after three cocktails."

His head cocked slightly, taking in the strains of music that had been registered faintly in the back of his mind. "I'll do my best but you know how he is."

"Try a movie and a cuddle."

He laughed and shook his head. "Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

"Night, John."

He chuckled to himself as he climbed the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was forever trying to get them together. Technically, he had to admit, they were together. In every way but sexually. Hell, he was more committed, in a domestic sense, to Sherlock than he'd been in a girlfriend since...forever really. The sexual thing...he couldn't even picture what that would be like. Well...he _could_ picture it, but it would be a fantasy in every sense of the word, completely fabricated, out of character behavior. The real Sherlock had to first be aware he had a penis before he could be bothered doing anything with it.

"Christ, that's haunting," he commented as he walked in the door. "All that's missing is a ghost rattling chains."

Sherlock turned and smirked as he continued to play. "Funny you should say that."

"Why?" He asked, inexplicably disappointed that Sherlock had responded.

"Johan Svendsen's Romance in G. I've taken liberties with it. _Tempo Rubato_." He swayed in a mesmerizing fashion. "That you should find it haunting says a lot about the current state of your love life."

"Oi!" He slammed the grocery bag down on the kitchen table. "You don't get to comment on the state of my love life."

"Whyever not?" He asked, mock confusion clear on his face.

John glared. "Your solder." He slid the bag closer to the neck.

"Thank you," he responded but made no move toward the kitchen. John sighed and resigned himself back to the chair, where he toed off his shoes and picked his book back up. It quickly became apparent that he wasn't absorbing a single detail of the story. He found himself uncomfortably sporting another erection. He crossed and uncrossed his legs several times in the span of a few minutes. Sherlock, who had switched to playing some piece that was even more haunting than the previous, thankfully turned back toward the open window. He found himself watching the way his flatmate moved, the precise sway of his torso, the graceful line of his back and the angle of his neck against the violin, his fingers on the strings. He could admit to himself how beautiful Sherlock was like this, how passionate he seemed when playing, a state he could only be found in doing this or solving a case. If he put half as much passion as he did into this into other things...

"What kind of book are you reading, John?"

"What?" He started.

"You're showing signs of a sizable erection there." He stopped playing and pointed with his bow. "I was just curious as to the type of book you are reading."

"Christ," he snapped. The book was slapped down and he rose from the chair.

"It's perfectly normal, John," he called out as John made his way toward the loo. "No need to be embarrassed."

"Piss off!" He slammed the door and leaned heavily against it, scrubbing both hands down his face. What a cock up. Why had he stayed in the living room, in the presence if the most observant man in the world, with a throbbing erection? "Idiot," he whispered to himself.

He eyeballed the shower. Might as well. The sudden need to wank became dire and he stripped in record speed. Hot water was an afterthought as he jumped into the tub. In what was perhaps the biggest, most childish, fuck you to his flatmate, he grabbed Sherlock's fancy conditioner to rub off with, hissing when he finally wrapped a hand around himself. There wasn't even a specific fantasy or image that brought him, panting and weak, to completion minutes later. Just the thought that Sherlock surely knew what he was doing in there. With no lock on the door he could easily have walked in on the proceedings, and what would John have been able to do? Nothing. It shouldn't have been so exciting, but it was. He was mid shampoo when the door banged open, damn near causing John to slip in the suds.

"I've come to the conclusion that you're either, in the most absurd way, attracted to danger or you ran into someone at the shop that attracted you to the point of distraction."

John wiped the shampoo from his eyes and poked his head around the shower curtain. "What are you on about?"

Sherlock held his book up. "This contains no sex scenes. The page you were on contained a scene involving a rather boring, inaccurate, martial arts fight between the protagonist and a Syrian National. So, either you really do get off on danger or you had a run in with a woman at the shop."

He stared at the detective, suppressing the instinct to chuck a bottle of shampoo at him, and sighed. "Some things are private, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't look like he liked this answer. He cocked his head and looked John over, what he could see poking out from the curtain, which was thankfully opaque.

"Leave it, would you? My love life isn't your concern and neither is my cock."

He opened his mouth, seemingly offended, but closed it again. With a huff he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

"Thank Christ for that," he muttered and went back to rinsing his hair. He wondered how long Sherlock would go before commenting on the teeth marks on his forearm, where it had been jammed into his mouth to keep from crying out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stick around for more. I'm not going to leave you guys in suspense for too long. I plan on getting the whole thing out within the next two days.


	3. Louré

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers what's going on with his body and after a semi-public wank, he asks a friend for advise.
> 
> Louré- A slight separation of a series of notes taken in a slur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John wanks at work. Shocking!

The third time 'The Incident' occurred, the catalyst gave him the first hint of what was going on with his traitorous body. The most ridiculous thing in the world really. He had just hopped into the lift at the clinic, same as any other day, to head up to his office, when low and behold, another erection. This one was thankfully hidden behind his lab coat, as he wasn't alone in the lift. It was a short ride, only two floors up, but the ride seemed interminable. He turned his body slightly away and prayed nothing showed on his face. _What in the Hell is wrong with me?_ He wondered. _I just wanked the other day, this can't be healthy._ He was determined to ignore it but as the day wore on it became apparent that it wasn't going away. It would wax and wane but never fully disappear, even with patients. He waited until there was a break between appointments before he locked his office door and took himself in hand. _Thank God for incognito window_ , he thought as he opened a tab on his desktop. His heart pounded, echoed in his throbbing cock, as he started tossing off at work. He hadn't had to do this since Med school, unless one counted wanking during combat. After approximately four minutes of not finding anything worthwhile, he closed the tab in frustration and lay back against the seat. He closed his eyes and pictured a scenario that would make him feel guilty after but just then he really just wanted to get off.

John, back in the shower, prick in hand, slowly stroking himself with seemingly all the time in the world. Suddenly he's not alone in the shower, he's being pulled back against a warm, incredibly naked body, one sporting a hot erection that presses into the small of his back, just above his arse. He moans, both in the fantasy and aloud in his office.

'It's me, isn't it?' Sherlock says in his ear.

'Always', John replies.

'Need any help with that?'

He turns and faces the man, looking up at him, fearless in his want. 'I'd love some.'

Without preamble Sherlock drops to his knees. He skims both large hands up John's thighs, until they span the width of his hips. His mouth opens as he looks up, waiting for John to feed him his cock. He obliges. That first hint of warm, wet heat enveloping him is like a kick to the stomach. The image conjured alone is enough to cause a bead of precome to ooze from his tip, just enough to slick around his foreskin. The thought of those heart shaped lips wrapped around him, Christ. No man had ever seen the sight, and none likely ever would, but John thought it a tragedy, because they were made for it. Such a quick learner too, his Sherlock. It wouldn't take long for him to deduce what John liked best. He'd reach up, take John's hands and place them in his hair, make him set the pace.

'That's it,' he whispers to Sherlock. He's forcing himself further and further down his throat and Sherlock is brilliant, swallowing him with ease. He's using those enormous hands to stroke up the back of John's thighs, over his arse, up his back and back down again. John pulls hard at his hair, causing Sherlock to groan around him, vibrations that travel from his flesh into John's. Sherlock has sensitive hair follicles. He knows this because a suspect once reached up and yanked on those curls with the intent of throwing him to the ground. It had worked. Sherlock had dropped like a sack of breezeblocks. The memory caused him to smile, even as he continued to wank unapologetically.

'Use that clever tongue, Love,' he coaches and receives a building pressure against the underside of his cock. Broad strokes and pointed ones, alternatively one and then the other, back and forth.

He wanted to make it last, picture everything he possibly could while he was already doing the forbidden anyway, but it was too late. He came with another stifled groan over his fist.

It took three full minutes for the guilt to replace the heat of orgasm. He set about cleaning the underside of his desk and the floor, scowling all the while. He'd not given in to that temptation since Mycroft had hinted that Sherlock was a virgin. Before that he'd admit to having thought about it, but after, it was just too awkward a concept. A man didn't get to be in his mid thirties and remain untouched by accident. Not a man like Sherlock. No, he was a virgin by choice, and the thought of him on his knees for anyone, while obviously tempting, was also just plain wrong. His stomach burned with shame the rest of the work day. Every single one of his remaining patients asked him if he was all right, including the nurse and the out patient desk clerk. As he grabbed his things from the office, he dialed Greg.

"John," the DI greeted. "What can I do for you?"

"I need to get piss drunk. Are you busy?"

"Actually, you caught me at the perfect moment. I'm just finishing up some paper work."

"Excellent. The usual?"

"Sounds good. I'll meet you there, say half hour?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Mate."

He chuckled. "Thank me after I see you home safely. I plan on drinking my weight in beer after the week I've had."

"You and me both. I'll see you there." They hung up and he pocketed his mobile. The lift ride back down to the lobby was what finally clued John into what was going on with his sudden surprise erections.

One of the new nurses, young kid, fresh out of Uni, hopped in after him. Suddenly he was laughing to himself.

"What?" John asked.

"We're getting Rick Rolled," the kid said.

"We're what?"

He pointed to the speakers that were piping in terrible instrumental music. "Rick Astley. Never Gonna Give You Up. Why somebody would do an instrumental string version of this, I have no idea."

String version. Violins. John closed his eyes as the truth of the situation slapped him in the forehead. Hell, even after having tossed off just a few hours before he was already twitching in his pants, just from the instrument being pointed out to him. It was the only tying theme of these ridiculous misadventures. Sherlock and his damn violin. Why hadn't he put two and two together before now? He was obviously having a standard Pavlovian response, caused from his habit of wanking when Sherlock was playing. He'd really done a number there, hadn't he? He marched out of the lift, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as the beginning of a headache started behind his eyes.

The tube ride over to The Mariner, his and Greg's usual Friday night spot, was blissfully quiet. He reached the pub without indecent, slapped his arse down at the bar and started what would no doubt be a huge tab by the end of the night.

"Starting without me?" Greg grinned as he sat down next to him.

John held his glass up. "Bet your arse. I couldn't wait."

Greg motioned to the bartender for his usual and he settled in. "So what issue are you washing away this week?"

"Let me absorb a few more, I just might tell you. You'll love it." Greg leaned back, smart enough to know, no, he probably didn't want to know. "Tell me about your week first. Bad case?"

"You could say that," he said and then proceeded to explain how seventeen parolees had banded together and held an extensive heist of valuable art at the Salisbury Arts Festival. Eight of those involved had been arrests of Lestrade's, so he was asked to aid in the investigation. How John wished his problem could be as simple as extensive paperwork. They chatted about police procedures, ignoring police procedures, and how smart Sherlock was, working outside the law as he did.

"He'll see me behind bars for aiding him," he motioned with his glass, sloshing beer over the rim, "just you wait and see."

"I'll bail you out." John slapped him on the back.

"You'll be in there too, you mad bastard. All three of us, cozy in our cell together. Fending off some bloke named Jimmy the Hat who wants to make Sherlock his girlfriend."

John spit his beer onto the bar. "He'd never make it a day," John agreed. "Posh prick."

Greg chuckled. "That he is. His brother is worse. Black limos give me anxiety now."

"Umbrella's will never be mere inclement weather precautions again. They're the devils accessory."

He snorted. With a slow nod he admitted, "Eh, he's not so bad. Could do worse than having an omnipotent presence looking out for you."

John leaned back to look Greg up and down. "Haven't you heard? He only occupies a minor position in the British Government."

They shared a laugh over that. "Shh, he's probably listening right now."

"I've said worse to his face."

Greg smiled. "You're a brave man, John Watson." John shrugged at that. "So, tell me," he licked the beer off his lips, "what brought this on?"

John grimaced. "You sure you want to know?"

"How bad is it?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Not bad, per se," he hedged. How badly did he need to tell this little secret? Apparently it was fairly serious because he started spilling the beans. "You ever find yourself being attracted to things that you weren't all of a sudden?"

Greg reared back. "I regret asking already. You and Sherlock can work this out on your own."

"No! It's not Sherlock!" Technically. "It's...fuck. It's my own damn fault." He huffed in frustration and slid his near empty glass of beer around in it's condensation, wondered if he should even continue with the conversation.

"Look, Mate, I'm sure there are a thousand other people you could talk to about this. Any other friends..."

"Like who? Mrs. Hudson?" He replied sarcastically.

Greg grimaced. "No, for fuck's sake. What about your friend Mike, the teacher at Bart's?"

"God no. I happen to know Mike is into animated birds. You don't want to know what I caught him doing while watching Heavy Metal when we were in school."

"No," he shook his head, "no, I don't." He turned to John fully. "All right, if it's down to me, I'll take one for the team. Lay it on me."

He hesitated. "You sure?"

"Yeah, what are pals for right? You gotta promise to bail me out if I ever get arrested though, no matter the cost."

"Unless I'm in there with you."

"Yeah. Unless that."

He slammed the rest of his beer. "All right. It's the damn violin."

Greg's forehead furrowed in wary confusion. "What about it?"

John looked around the pub, made sure no one was listening before he explained. It was a perfect level of not too quiet and not too crowded, so he leaned in and continued. "I've sort of been having to work my...alone time, if you catch my drift, around when Sherlock is other wise distracted, which basically leaves me a small window of wank time that happens solely when he's playing his violin. I didn't think anything of it but lately, well, it's come to my attention that just hearing the damn thing, it apparently doesn't even have to be him playing, any violin, sets off my 'Now's a good time for a tug' meter. Even if it's not a good time for a tug. You see my problem?"

Greg looked horrified. "Mate, I hope you getting that off your chest was as far as I'm meant to help with that because I'll be honest, I have no idea what to say."

He sighed. "I know. It's a cock up. I've never had anything like this happen before. Have you?"

"Wanted to jerk off on my flatmate's musical instrument? No, can't say I have."

"That's not what I said at all and you know it."

He chuckled. "I know, I'm just having a go. Seriously though, no, I haven't had anything like that happen. I've got the opposite problem actually. If I even see a bowl of those little pastel mints old ladies like, I'll be off it for a week."

"I have absolutely no need to find out where that stemmed from."

"And I'll do you the courtesy of not sharing. You're welcome." He held up his glass in a toast. "Have you tried talking to him about it?"

"What, Sherlock?" He laughed hard. "He'd turn it into a damn experiment, you know he would. No, I'll figure it out. Maybe just hold off for a while."

"Yeah, good luck with that," he laughingly replied. "You seeing anyone? That might help."

"No. Sherlock ran off the last one when he deduced the state of her finances in relation to why she wanted to date a doctor. While we were in the restaurant."

Greg laughed and winced. "Ouch. Yeah, I see the issue there." He gave John a sly, sideways look and John knew he was in for it. "Why don't you try a professional?"

John pointedly looked down at the badge clipped to Greg's hip. "I'll not answer that, if you don't mind."

He smirked. "You didn't hear it from me," he looked around and leaned in, "but I know the best in town, trustworthy, discreet, and clean. Wouldn't steer you wrong, Mate." He winked.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade...are you pimping on the side?" He asked, wide eyed.

"No! Just helping out a friend, is all."

"Well if you can't trust a cop on which hookers are safe, who can you trust?" He motioned to the bartender for another round.

"Exactly." He waited until the bartender set their drinks down before continuing. "Why can't you just have a wank in the shower like a normal bloke?"

"No locks on the doors, remember?"

"Right. But it's not like he's barreling in on you. Is he?" John gave him a 'We both know the answer to that question' look. "Right again. It is Sherlock. I mean, you live with the man, you'd know best when to go to it. Sorry, Mate. I predicted a lot of things that could have gone wrong with Sherlock Holmes having a flatmate but this was not one of them."

"You and me both. At least all you've to deal with is bureaucratic bull shit. I'm going to die from exploding bollocks."

Greg raised his glass. "To clearing the pipes and cutting red tape."

"I'll drink to that." They clinked glasses and continued to imbibe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things really heat up in the next chapter. Lestrade is a bad influence.


	4. Martellato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes some bad advise from a certain Detective Inspector. Things take a turn for the scandalous. Can we say 'Male prostitute with a Military Fetish'?
> 
> Martellato- Hammer style bowing, detached stroke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the longest so far. Lots of build up to the smut.

  
One week later, to the day, John walked up the pavement toward the flat, only to stop dead in his tracks when the strains of Sherlock's violin could be heard through the open window. He took a deep breath, and then another, and another, until he was dizzy and had to brace himself against the side of the building. He couldn't go inside. Not now, not sporting another damn erection. He was sorely temped to text Sherlock and fake a kidnapping just so he'd rush out of the flat. A wild goose chase would keep him occupied for at least an hour. Long enough for John to...take care of business. He looked around for witnesses, of which there were none. It hadn't reached epic, undeniable proportions yet, but Sherlock would spot it as soon as he came in the door. He was irritating like that, as if he didn't have periphery vision, everything came in crystal clear. A customer exited Speedy's in front of him and he took the opportunity to duck inside, a choice that was only slightly less idiotic than going upstairs. There were people inside after all.

  
Mr. Chattergee waved from behind the counter and John sat quickly at a table so his condition wouldn't be noticeable. "Just a water, if you don't mind," he called out when the owner made his way over.

  
"You got it, John."

  
He fiddled with the flimsy paper menu just to have something to do with his hands. It was getting ridiculous, this reaction. He couldn't be run from the flat every time Sherlock wanted to play. He'd never ask him to stop, that was out of the question. Sherlock was too talented, it was too important to him, John would never take that away. Especially since this wasn't Sherlock's fault. It might have started because the man hadn't given John any privacy but now it was a monster of John's own making.

  
"There you are." Mr. Chattergee set the glass down. "I'll get you a sandwich too."

  
Before John could utter a word he turned with a smile and headed back behind the counter. Actually, it would give him a reason to stick around.

  
His phone buzzed, shocking him out of his revelry. It was a text from Greg.

  
_Having any luck with that thing we were talking about? DIGL_

  
John snorted at Greg's timing and typed out a response.

  
_Funny you should ask. I'm holed up downstairs at Speedy's this very moment because I can't go upstairs._

  
_Ha! Cop instincts. So what're you gonna do? DIGL_

  
_No idea. Wait it out I guess. Got any cases you could give the Maestro? Just to get him out of the flat for an hour or so?_

  
_Sorry, Mate. Nothing he'd take the bait for. Can't you just ask him to stop? DIGL_

  
His sandwich came and he dug into it. BLT with cheese. Every once in awhile somebody would come or go and the door would open, letting in the notes from their window. It was a blessing and a curse that Sherlock was so good. If he were terrible Mrs. Hudson would probably asked them to leave by now.

  
_I can't do that. It's not his fault._

  
_It is, sort of. If he hadn't been a prat in the first place... DIGL_

  
_The thought had occurred but no. Now it's my problem. No, I'm not even going to mention it. He'd only bug me until I told him what was wrong and I'll die before I admit to it._

  
_Oh, but you'll tell me all about it. :p DIGL_

  
John cocked his head at Greg's use of emoticons.

  
_You did ask._

  
_I was trying to be helpful. Have you given any thought to my_ _other suggestion? DIGL_

  
He took a breath. It was insane, not to mention illegal.

  
_I believe this is called entrapment._

  
_John. I didn't become a police officer to arrest women who are just trying to make a living. If I gave a shit about that, I'd have stayed on the beat. Trust me, I'm not going to bust you. It was my idea, remember? Hell, the Chief has a girl on the side. Name's Violet if memory serves. DIGL_

  
John hesitated before responding. Maybe that's just what he needed. To actually get laid for once, instead of expecting his hand to satisfy for any length of time.

  
_How much are we talking here? You said they were classy._

  
_I don't know too much about the in's and out's. I can give you the address and you can check it out for yourself. No pressure. DIGL_

  
He barely waited a beat before responding that time. The idea had entered his blood stream and now he couldn't shake it loose.

  
_Yeah, all right. Give me the address. And don't you breathe a word of this to anyone. I'll make sure your desk is covered in pastel mints for a month._

  
_Lol. You got it. DIGL_

  
The address came next. A Kensington neighborhood if memory served, which went a long way to assure him of the quality. He finished his sandwich, called out to Sal to put it on his tab and shuffled awkwardly out the door. He slid sideways away from the flat, just in case Sherlock was at the window. The violin had turned frantic and it did little to calm John's racing heart. Doing something stupid, borderline dangerous. Yep, he'd have been sporting an erection regardless of the violin at this point. Sherlock was nearer to the truth about his addiction to danger than he knew.

  
He hailed a cab once he was well enough away and they made their way to Kensington. He texted Greg again when they got close.

  
_Is there some code word or a phrase I need to get in?_

  
_Oh, I almost forgot. Yeah. It's "Vests over Sweaters but naked is better." DIGL_

  
_Are you serious?_

  
_As a heart attack. DIGL_

  
_All right. Thanks._

  
_Don't mention it. :) DIGL_

  
John snorted. He certainly wouldn't. They pulled alongside a white Edwardian house situated between two buildings that were once probably also residential but were now functioning as, ironically, a law firm and a salon.

  
"Apt," John mumbled.

  
"Was that?" The driver asked.

  
"Nothing," he answered and paid the man. He flipped through his wallet and quickly counted how much he had on him. A little under two hundred pounds. More in the bank though, he knew. Hopefully they had an ATM. He snickered as he made his way forward.

  
He only hesitated briefly before pushing the front door open. Inside, the entryway had been opened up and remodeled to look like a standard waiting room. The girl at the front desk sat casually, unprofessionally if any one asked him, and snapped her gum in a way that was sure to turn off any bloke who approached. Speaking of other blokes, there were two seated to the right of the front desk, along the wall. Neither looked up as he approached and he was grateful.

  
"Um," he cleared his throat, "Vests over sweaters but naked is better."

  
The girl looked up slowly, cocked her head and snapped her gum again. "Huh?"

  
One of the guys along the wall snickered.

  
"I've never done this before," he admitted. "Did I screw it up?"

  
"Screw what up?" She asked, brow furrowed. It was clear she wasn't the brightest bulb in the box but John quickly came to the conclusion that Greg had indeed been fucking with him. He closed his eyes and pictured just how he was going to get his revenge.

  
"Look, are you here to browse or...?"

  
"Yes. That." He pulled his phone from his pocket. The receptionist handed him a black plastic binder and went back to her computer with a bored scowl. He took it to the far wall, across from the two gentlemen already waiting, and sat. He typed out a message to Greg before he opened the binder.

  
_I'm going to murder you so spectacularly even Sherlock won't be able to figure it out._

  
_Hahaha. Threatening a police officer while visiting a known_ _cat house, John? DIGL_

  
_You're God damn right._

  
He jammed his phone back in his pocket and opened the binder. He had to give it to them, it was very tastefully done. Like something he imagined Irene would have had done. He scowled at the thought of her. A shake of his head and he went back to the task at hand. Each girl had both her own full body and face shot, complete with, most likely made up, biography and a price list for services provided. He flipped through and marveled at what they were getting away with charging. He'd be lucky if he walked out with a blow job. Each girl was, in her own way, extremely attractive, but for some reason none of them were really catching his interest.

  
"Gentlemen? Andrea will see you now," another woman announced. John hadn't even seen her entrance. The two blokes got up together and followed her into a doorway behind the front desk. He had to laugh to himself at that. Looked a little like the clinic if he thought about it. The more he thought about it, it occurred to him that if the two blokes had gone in together and were seeing the same girl, they were getting serviced together. That thought led to the realization that the reason none of these girls were doing anything for him was because he didn't want a girl. In embarrassment he walked back up to the front desk.

  
He cleared his throat when the girl didn't look up.

  
Still barely acknowledging him she held her hand out for the binder. "Make a selection?" Snap went her gum.

  
"Um, no, actually I was wondering if you could point me in another direction?"

  
She looked up. "What'd you mean?"

  
"I'm actually thinking I'd like a bloke. If you have any or know where I could find one..." God, this was embarrassing.

  
She rolled her eyes, so very unprofessional, and lifted the phone at her elbow. For a brief moment he thought she was calling security to throw him out.

  
"Thalia, there's a guy here that wants a special order. Yeah. No, I didn't do it." She quickly pulled her gum from her mouth and flicked it into the trash. "Okay, I'll show him back." She hung up and stood. "Follow me."

  
He followed behind, through the door and down a hallway, further toward the back of the house. He expected to hear at least a moan or two but it was eerily quiet. They must have sound proofed. Or things were going on much further upstairs. The receptionist opened a door and motioned him through.

  
"Thalia will help you out." She smiled, saccharine sweet, and left him to it.

  
"Come in, come in," a woman's voice called out.

  
He stepped inside and found himself in an office with a stunning woman, closer in age to himself actually, which put him at ease, sitting on the corner of a large mahogany desk. She was dark, with almond shaped eyes and full, sensuous lips. She smiled, more authentic than the previous girl, and he found that she had dimples as well. Christ.

  
"Hello," he greeted.

  
"Thalia," she held out her hand, which he took. Her grip was firm.

  
"John," he told her.

  
She cocked an eyebrow.

  
Oh. He snickered. "It really is."

  
"That's fine." She smiled again. "So, Denise tells me you're looking for a creature of a different sort."

  
He shifted his shoulders at the term 'creature.' As if he were asking for a Manta Ray, not the other fifty percent of the population. "Yes. If that's possible."

  
"Oh, it's definitely possible. I'm just supposed to talk you out of it."

  
"Why?" He asked warily.

  
"Because when we bring in the boys, we only get finders and rooming fees. If you pick one of our girls, we get the whole shebang."

  
"Sorry for the hassle. Maybe I should just give it up all together."

  
"No, no, John. I'd rather you got what you wanted than leave unsatisfied. Here," she handed him another black binder, "have a seat. Take your time, I'll leave you to it. Just buzz me, here," she pointed to a black box on her desk, "and I'll put your order in. Now, keep in mind, since you're asking for a gent, it's going to take a bit longer to fulfill your request. There's travel time to add since they don't live in-house."

  
"I understand."

  
"All right," she smiled again, "I'll let you make your decision."

  
He waited until the door closed behind her before he opened the binder.

  
"Christ," he mumbled as he flipped through. They were all so young. He looked up at that thought. The girls hadn't been any older really. Why had the thought not even occurred to him? If anything he should be more relaxed about the idea of fucking a young bloke than a young girl. Something was wrong there, he was sure. Probably boiled down to simple vanity. Hard not to compare what he used to look like when looking at all these late teens, early twenty year olds. He flipped faster, no longer even looking at the photos, just scanning for age.

  
19, 23, 18, 21, 19, 18, 20, 18...32. Oh, that's better at least. He looked at the photo and sucked in a breath.

  
"Oh, I want this one," he said aloud to no one. He was gorgeous, not in a young, everyone is at that age, sort of way, but in a classic, staying power kind of way. He wasn't so in denial that he didn't see why he wanted this one so badly. Not with his pale skin, his dark hair, the blue eyes, closer to grey than aquamarine, but still radiant. No, it was fairly obvious. A twinge could be felt in his gut but he ignored it. As long as he was doing something stupid, he might as well go all the way. He leaned over and pressed the red button. Less than a minute later Thalia came back.

  
"Find what you were looking for?"

  
"Yes." He held up the binder.

  
"Calvin. Very nice choice, experience over youth. I like that in a man." She winked at him and took the binder.

  
Three Continents Watson opened his mouth and offered, "You're more than welcome to join," before he realized he probably couldn't afford both.

  
She laughed. "Once upon a time, I'd have taken you up on the offer, but, alas, I'm a married woman now." She held up her left hand which, previously unnoticed by John, bore a wedding band. "I run the books now. Keeps me humble."

  
"You're husband doesn't mind?" He asked, again before he thought about how crass that sounded.

  
"I should think not," she said with a smile as she picked up and held the phone between her neck and shoulder and dialed in the number. "Where do you think we met? Hey, Cal. Yeah, got an offer for you, if you're free."

  
John hadn't even thought of that. What if he declined? The suspense weighed heavy in his gut.

  
Thalia smiled. Good sign. "It's a date. Oh, right. I forgot to ask. Oh, hush, you. You're only five years younger. All right, hold on." She laughed and held the phone away from her head."He wants to know what's on the table?" At John's blank look she clarified. "What do you want, dear? Hand job, blow job, full anal...?"

  
"Oh, jeez, I...do I have to pick now? I mean I don't normally plan so far in advance."

  
"He says he doesn't know. Yeah, he's cute." She winked at him. "Okay, see you in a bit." She hung up and John sighed in relief. "You're in luck. He says he's flexible."

  
"Oh, good. I mean, I'm not into anything weird or anything. I'm sure we'll settle on something he's comfortable with, so he doesn't have to worry."

  
She laughed and shoved him in the shoulder. "It's fine, dear. There's probably nothing you could throw at him that he hasn't seen before. Actually there was one guy who really did like to throw things," she informed him with a look up in remembrance.

  
"That's good. So should I just wait here?"

  
"That's your prerogative but it'll cost you extra if you want to fuck on my desk."

  
John laughed when she winked again. "I'll take a room, if you don't mind. Nothing wrong with a little desk action but I wouldn't want to screw up your system." He waved at the mess.

  
"Follow me, wise arse." She pulled him up by the hand and gave him a saucy grin as she pulled him along.

  
One of the girls whistled at them as they walked upstairs. "Back in the game, Thal? Does Ralph know?"

  
"Fuck off, he's not mine," she retorted.

  
The girl stuck her tongue out at her and sashayed away down the hall.

  
"Ignore Betty, she's a bit touched in the head."

  
He laughed. "I get the feeling it's not uncommon around here." She turned and mock scowled at him. "No, it's great. I love it. Never a dull moment."

  
"Damn right, that's our motto," she mumbled as she opened a door with an electronic key card. She stepped in first and walked to one of the side tables next to the bed and opened the drawer. "Yep, you're all stocked for necessities. Your condoms, lube, that sort of thing." She crawled up on the bed, Lord have mercy, and leaned over so she could look in the other drawer. What was once a tasteful knee length skirt quickly became indecent. "And you're all good on toys and accessories. Cuffs, tape, feathers, you know, the whole package. Calvin will let you know what he's available to do but between you and me, he's usually up for anything." She hopped off the bed, smoothed her skirt back down and walked back to the doorway. "Now, I'd love to keep you company while you wait but I've got a business to manage. Buzz the intercom if you need anything and myself or one of the girls will help you out."

  
"Oh, one question. How do I pay?"

  
"Calvin will let you know what you owe. He gives us our cut from that."

  
"Huh. How do you keep him from just running off with all of it?"

  
She smiled. "It would be awfully stupid of him to do. He's got a good thing going with us, we're one of the best in the country, didn't you know? And anyway, all of us are under contract."

  
"Contract," he laughed. "That can't be legally binding. How would you enforce it?"

  
She smirked. "John, how did you hear about us?"

  
He hesitated. He didn't want to get Greg in trouble. "A friend."

  
"I'm going to go ahead and guess this 'friend' is some sort of official? Either legal or enforcement?"

  
He squinted at her. "How?"

  
"There have always been proper channels for these sorts of things. We're one of the oldest established in the country."

  
"Huh," he huffed, suddenly thinking about Mycroft, and wasn't that a turn off.

  
"You need anything else?"

  
"Oh no, thanks, Thalia."

  
"Come see me before you leave. I'd love a play by play of your activities."

  
He pushed her from the room. "Get outta here." They laughed as he gently moved her out into the hall. He shut the door behind her and sat on the bed to wait. It wasn't long before there came a knock at the door. His pulse went into overdrive as he stood to answer it.

  
"Oh, hello." Calvin smiled at him when he opened the door.

  
"Hello." They stared at each other, both with growing smiles, apparently equally pleased with the turn of the days events. "Come in," he motioned with an arm and closed the door when he stepped through. John took the opportunity to scan him from behind and a shiver wracked his frame at the bounty before him. He was bigger than...well, just bigger, but not by much. His hair was longer than in the binder but that wasn't an issue. He set his bag down and turned back to John.

  
"I bring my own supplies, I hope you don't mind. I'm kind of paranoid about other peoples toys. I mean, we don't even need to bring them out if that's not your thing, I'm just letting you know."

  
John smiled. "We'll see." He continued to peruse Calvin's body. He was encased in dark jeans, low hung on his slim hips, and a black t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders pleasantly. His smile grew. "This was a good idea." He'd have to remember to thank Greg.

  
Calvin laughed. "I'm glad you think so. Quite flattering." He made no secret of the fact that he looked John up and down as well. "Straight but curious?" He guessed.

  
John got a rush from the fact that he could still pass for completely straight, even to a bloke who clearly wasn't. Apparently the only time he couldn't was when he was standing next to Sherlock. _Don't think about Sherlock, idiot._

  
He chuckled and shook his head at Calvin.

  
"Oh," he huffed, with an impressed moue. "So, you've done this before?"

  
John laughed. "I was doing this when you were still in Primary school." He realized this probably came off as condescending but Calvin just laughed.

  
"Fair enough. I like it better when I don't have to go easy anyway."

  
John felt his grin turn feral. "Come here."

  
Calvin quickly complied. They crashed together, barely avoiding cutting each other with their teeth, and John groaned at the feel of another hot body pressed up against him. Calvin wasn't much taller than he was, a hundred and seventy-eight centimeters at most, and for some reason that fact disappointed him. He'd long since gotten over being angry over his small stature, he really didn't care if a bloke was taller or not. He'd never really had a preference in that area, but for some reason he wanted Calvin to be taller.

  
_You're not an idiot. You know why._

  
He growled at his inner monologue, which Calvin took to mean he was doing well, and he was, but it wasn't exactly aimed at him. He pulled John's shirt over his head and tossed it away. John did the same for him, raking his fingers deeply into the muscles of his back on the way down.

  
"Oh," Calvin breathed. "What happened here?" John looked up to see him studying his bullet scar. "Oh, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry."

  
"No, it's fine. Really. Bullet passed through during my last tour. Afghanistan."

  
His eyes widened. "You're a soldier?"

  
"Was, yeah. Invalided home when this happened." He gave a small smile.

  
"What rank?" He breathed.

  
John saw it then, that light in his eye. He liked it, the fact that John was a soldier. "Captain," he answered, slowly with a hint of a growl.

  
Calvin took a deep breath through his nose. Two seconds later John found himself lifted off his feet and planted heavily on the bed. Calvin came down on top and snogged him hard, until he could barely breathe. He loved it. His fingers tangled in the younger mans hair and another traitorous thought whispered in his ear, _Too straight, not curly enough._ He wrenched away with a growl and bit into Calvin's shoulder. He gasped and thrust against John's thigh. He tucked one hand into the waist band of Calvin's jeans, got a handful of his perfect arse and the other he used to hook his leg up higher, so he could grind harder down on John's cock.

  
"Yes," he hissed in John's ear. "Tell me you were doing this over there. Tell me you were fucking some blokes brains out behind the tents."

  
John laughed. "Occasionally, but never behind the tents. That's just asking for trouble." He sucked his ear lobe into his mouth and bit down.

  
Calvin mewled. "Oh, God, that's so fucking hot. Tell me more."

  
"I used to suck off my C.O. while I was on night duty. On slow nights he would wander into my office with some excuse or other, usually involving some reason to take his trousers off. I don't remember how it started but it always ended with his dick in my mouth." Calvin panted in John's ear. God, he was really getting off on this. John was too, though, remembering. He slipped his hand further into Calvin's jeans and ran his middle finger down the crack of his arse, which caused Calvin to buck harder against him. "We never talked about it," he whispered in his ear. "I think I was his first. He was engaged to some girl back home."

  
He groaned so loud it actually startled John. "Oh, my God, all right, you've got to stop or I'm going to come. I swear I will." He dove back down and opened John's mouth wide. He continued to rub circles around Calvin's entrance and eventually he pushed in, just a bit. The younger man pulled back to suck in a breath and groaned as he pushed back against John's finger.

  
"It's been two years since my last piece of arse, you know," he admitted truthfully. "That was Afghanistan too. One of my Privates got a crush. It happens sometimes, the ones who like being bossed around. He used to beg for it but I wouldn't give in. I'd never fucked a subordinate before. I had morals," he purred sarcastically. "But the Major, as much as I loved his cock, he never reciprocated. I was getting desperate. One night, he crept into my bunk and just fucking went for it. I woke up with his mouth halfway down my cock." Calvin was grinding in earnest now. They hadn't even taken their trousers off yet. "After that I said fuck it and had him every way you can think of. The last time I fucked him in the back of a humvee. We used gun oil as lube." By the time John finished speaking his finger had slipped all the way in and Calvin bucked hard against it.

  
"Oh, fuck!" He cried out and stilled against John's leg as he came. Defeated and weak, he slumped back down against John's chest and panted. He removed his finger and rubbed lazy circles over the top of his arse. "You...you complete dickhead. I haven't come in my pants since I was fifteen," he mumbled against John's neck.

  
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said with a smirk.

  
Calvin wrapped him tighter in his grasp. "You should." He hummed contently in his ear and kissed lazily at his neck.

  
A pit opened up in John's stomach. He suddenly felt like something was very wrong. As gently as he could he untangled Calvin from around his torso and sat up.

  
"Hey, are you okay?" He asked, concern and wariness clear on his face.

  
John tried to smile in comfort but he thought it probably just looked sad. "Yeah, I just need a minute."

  
"If you think I'm not going to finish you off, you are sorely mistaken," he said with conviction as he sat up as well.

  
"I believe you, I just need..." He didn't know how to answer.

  
_Sherlock. I need Sherlock. And you're not him._

  
He moaned and gripped two handfuls of hair and pulled.

  
"Look, if you're mad that I came already you have nobody to blame but yourself. I told you that shit was going to make me come."

  
John couldn't help but laugh at that. He leaned down and kissed him once on the mouth, which earned him a confused pout. "It's not that. I came here for a reason but I think this isn't going to solve anything."

  
"What do you mean?"

  
"I only agreed to this on the word of an idiot friend, who apparently gives the worst advise, and I think this isn't going to help my situation. In fact, I think it's making it worse."

  
"I know it's kind of cliché but do you want to talk about it?"

  
John laughed and pushed a hand through his hair. "I'm sure you've got better things to do."

  
"Yeah, you're right. I'd much rather be back at my flat, finishing up that game of ping pong with my stoned Welsh flatmate, who by the way is also near sighted." He smirked.

  
John laughed again. He liked this kid. "It's stupid."

  
"If it's stopping you from having sex with me, it's not stupid. Tell me what's wrong."

  
"I have a crush on my flatmate," he blurted out.

  
Calvin nodded sagely. "Go on."

  
He took a breath. The worst was out there now, wasn't it? "He's Asexual. Or, I think he is. That's the only thing I know what to call it. He doesn't have sex so...Yeah. He doesn't do relationships either. And I've always respected that. After he told me it wasn't his thing I shut off any hope that it might have evolved at some point. But lately...I can't shut it off." He didn't want to explain the violin thing. It was too hard to explain if you didn't know Sherlock.

  
"That's rough." He rubbed at his lips in thought. "Have you talked to him about it?"

  
"No," he laughingly answered. "God no. He'd shit a brick. He doesn't even know about this." He motioned to the both of them.

  
"John," he looked down at the bed and back up. "I think you should tell him."

  
"I can't. You don't understand, I've built my entire life around him. He's my best friend. I can't risk it."

  
"You're already risking it. Bottling it up isn't going to make it go away."

  
"Fuck," he snapped. Suddenly he was desperate to escape.

  
"Hey, wait, come back," Calvin jumped up when John did and stopped him as he bent to pick up his shirt. "Look, hey, just listen for a second. I know we don't know each other or anything but you're the coolest guy I've _almost_ fucked in a long time. Given different circumstances I think I'd actually like to see you again, in a non-John/rent boy copacity. But I get it. You're conflicted. I'm sorry I couldn't help, really, but I just...I wish you wouldn't bury this."

  
"It's not as simple as talking it out," he said.

  
"Okay, but at least keep an open mind about it. If the opportunity presents itself, you should take it. Better to have loved and lost, right?" John grimaced which made Calvin laugh. "So? Do you still want this taken care of at least?" He reached for John but he had to stop him.

  
"I do, I really do, but I think it will just make me feel worse in the long run."

  
"You're terrible. I was actually looking forward to that for the first time in a long time."

  
"Sorry. I'm still going to pay. What do I owe you?"

  
Calvin cocked an eyebrow. "John, you didn't even get off. If anything I owe you."

  
"I know how it works though. You deserve to be compensated for your time."

  
"Shut up, would you? My time was better spent here with you than at home while I sat on my arse and ate Lo Mein. You let me dry hump you and set me up with wank material for life. We're square."

  
"You're sure?" God he still felt so guilty. "What about Thalia's cut? For the room and that?"

  
He leaned in and kissed John, not rushed, just sweet. "Go, you prat. Before you risk making a hooker fall in love with you. We've had enough clichés for today."

  
He looked Calvin over one more time, suddenly angry he couldn't just fall for a guy like this. Complications abounded there, but wouldn't it be nice? He tugged his shirt back on and double checked he had everything he'd come in with.

  
"I'm just horny enough to tell you, if things go tits up with my flatmate I might have to move in with you and the Welshman," he said before he opened the door.

  
Calvin laughed. "Okay but if you have an even halfway decent job I'm quitting the biz. You can be my Sugar Daddy," he teased.

  
"Deal. You'd be in good hands. I'm a Doctor." He winked when Calvin's jaw dropped. On that note he opened and closed the door behind him. As he made his way down the hall he heard Calvin groan and then what sounded like his head hitting the door. He grinned. It was nice to be wanted, Hell, even if it was for his imagined money and his War stories. The way out was quiet, it was almost dusk after all. The street was deserted and he had to walk a few blocks before he reached a road busy enough to supply him with a cab.

  
 _At least I've still got my money_ , he thought, _since I accomplished absolutely nothing in the way of_ _'Sudden Violin Boners.'_ Yeah, that's what he was going to call it. Not ' _There's a possibility I'm falling in love with my Asexual flatmate and there's nothing I can do about it.'_

  
When he got home, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table.

  
"You're home late," he commented without looking up from his microscope.

  
"I went out after work."

  
"Where to?"

  
John turned and looked at him. "Why do you suddenly care?" Christ, could he tell?

  
"I don't. I'm humanizing myself. I think. Mrs. Hudson recommended it."

  
John smiled in relief. Thank God for small favors. "I went out to eat."

  
Sherlock looked up at that. His eyes bore a hole into John's chest. "No you didn't. You had sex."

  
Traitorous fucking blood supply caused him to blush. How could he always tell? "No I didn't." It was sort of the truth. Nobodies trousers had come off.

  
"Yes, you did." He turned fully in his seat. "The woman from the market?"

  
John thanked God Sherlock didn't somehow read male prostitute on him somewhere. It was a miracle Calvin's come hadn't bled through onto John's jeans. He turned with a scowl. "Leave it alone, Sherlock."

  
He smirked, clearly thinking he'd guessed right, just as John wanted. "Feeling like Thai tonight. You?" He asked as he turned back to his microscope.

  
"Sure. I'll order."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish John had gone all the way with Calvin. *sigh*


	5. Tremolo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a case takes the boys to a symphony, John has a nervous breakdown. 
> 
> Tremolo- Moving the bow with great rapidity, trembling, repeating the same note with rapid up and down movements, best done with the wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved driving John nuts in this chapter. I loved it! Tuxes, violins and Sherlock, oh my!

Since John's discovery of the violin situation things got simultaneously better and worse. On the one hand, he knew to avoid the flat altogether if Sherlock was playing, so that helped. On the other, knowing the correlation between the violin and the erection didn't help keep his mind off of his flatmate, and therein lied the real dilemma . He still hadn't figured out what to do about that. The violin thing was bad enough, he was now able to pick strains of it out of pieces of music he hadn't even known contained it, but since he'd done his best to avoid the violinist at his craft, he was starved for his attention when he could get it. Which wasn't helping the infatuation any. Cases were becoming a study in thought control. 

"Hand me my phone," he demanded one day, while working a murder in Barking.

"Where is it?"

"Jacket," he answered, still leaning over the corpse. He hated when Sherlock did this. _He's asking for his phone, John, not for you to shag him raw._ But didn't it feel just like that when he forced John to reach into his clothes, touch his chest, feel the heat from his skin. _Jesus, save me from lazy detectives._ He grabbed hold of the damn phone and slapped it into the bastards out stretched hand. Not a violin within twenty miles but damn if he wasn't half mast in his trousers just from touching him. Knowing an erection wasn't a medical condition didn't stop him from desperately wanting to bury it in a willing orifice. He'd thought several times about going back to see Calvin but he knew that wasn't fair to him. No, he'd done what he could by himself these last few weeks but it was quickly becoming apparent that it wouldn't be enough.

"I'll be outside," he snapped.

"Fine," Sherlock answered, already distracted with whatever he was looking up on his phone. John could have walked out into traffic and Sherlock wouldn't have noticed.

It was stupid to have wandered out onto the street, in this neighborhood particularly, but he needed the air, brine scented though it was, and he couldn't be bothered with feeling any real fear. He'd seen worse than this estate could conjure. He was just contemplating, for the thousandth time, whether or not abstaining from masturbation would help or hinder him, when Sherlock bounded down from the stoop.

"Come along, John," he commanded.

John rolled his eyes but followed. "A clue?"

"Yes, of a sort. I recognize this M.O. 'The Maestro of Belgium.'" He continued to type into his phone at break neck speeds without looking up.

"And you informed Dimmock of this, yeah?" He asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Yep," he answered quickly.

"Sherlock," he drawled, daring him to lie.

He looked up, the picture of innocence. "I did!" Back down at his phone he muttered, "It's not my fault if we get to him first."

"Christ, I knew it! We are not going after a contracted hit man without the police, Sherlock."

"I'm not suggesting that we do. I'm merely saying I'm more likely to locate him than they are. Once I've laid eyes on him, I'll inform the police."

John sighed. He'd heard this story before. And he'd also learned what happened if he refused to help. "Where are we going then?"

"Barbican Centre."

John's heart skipped a beat. "Why?"

"They don't call him 'The Maestro' for nothing."

"He's leading the fucking London Symphony Orchestra?!"

Sherlock burst out laughing, and though it did warm him a bit to see, John still glared. "Sorry, I should have elaborated. He's a fan. Murder and music, that's his game. A killer after my own heart really. I've waited years to get this close to him, I'll not give him up to Dimmock just yet, if you don't mind."

Oh, John minded. He minded very much. The symphony meant tuxes...It meant sitting still for hours on end...It meant Sherlock and violins...Sitting next to Sherlock in a tux for hours while they listened to the world's best violin players..."I think I'll sit this one out," he mumbled.

He looked over in shock. "Absolutely not! What's the matter with you?"

 _Most likely? Priapism._ "Nothing, I just don't think I'll be of much use."

"Ridiculous. What if he recognizes me? Who's going to be the muscle?"

John tried not to smile and failed. "Is that what I am?"

"Among other things."

He thought on that and wished for another guilt ridden moment that 'other things' included lover. _Stop it!_ "Well it's not like I can just take my gun in with me, can I?"

"There are ways around that, of course. And I trust you remember how to defend yourself without it," he said in that condescending tone he had.

John flexed his fingers. "Would you like to find out?"

Sherlock stepped off the kerb and smirked at John as he hailed a cab. "You're a barbarian, John." Before John could retort, Sherlock's phone buzzed. The detective rolled his eyes but answered it. "I need them for tomorrow. No, it's imperative. You're telling me, Baker Street," he told the cabbie after they slid in the backseat, "that with your leverage on the board you can't get last minute seats?" He growled. "No, I don't even want floor seats, idiot, I need to be able to see from above, don't I? Just give me the damn box."

John turned his head as Sherlock argued with his brother, clearly that's who it was, and hid his grin behind his fist as he stared out the window. As soon as Sherlock had hung up, John turned back and threw up another sound excuse. "I don't own a tux."

"Yes you do."

John looked around the cab, as if a tux was going to appear out of thin air. "Um, no. I don't think I do."

"You do." He continued to text furiously. "I had one made within the first month of your moving in. For an occasion just like this one."

"You...how?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone impatiently. "What'd you mean how? I had my tailor make you a tux. What about this is confusing you?"

"I mean aren't you supposed to get fitted for that sort of thing? How'd you get my measurements? How do you know it's going to fit?"

"I have eyes." His eyebrows rose incrementally, questioning John's sanity. John agreed with the sentiment. He was going mad. Picturing Sherlock standing over his sleeping body with a tape measure was tame compared to the idea that Sherlock had memorized every inch of him so well in that first month that he could repeat the measurements by heart to a tailor...

"So," he croaked and tried again, "So where've you been keeping it?"

"The wardrobe with the rest of mine." Back down to his phone he went. The sun had set since leaving the crime scene and the light from his phone lit Sherlock's face with it's blue glow. Where once John would have used the term 'Alien', he'd quickly stared using terms like 'Ethereal' to describe the man. He turned away and tried to focus on something, anything, less painful than that.

 

Twenty-four hours later he was thinking more along the lines of 'Demonic'. At the very least 'Sinful'. The man was just asking for an arse kicking.

"Sherlock!" He yelled down the stairs as he descended. "This is utterly ridiculous. Just because you wear your clothes like a second skin doesn't mean the rest of us-"

He stopped dead in his tracks. Idiot. He should have been mentally preparing himself to see Sherlock in a tux for the first time. He wasn't prepared. Not at all.

"What?" Sherlock asked as he turned from the mirror.

John opened his mouth but nothing came out. He had to look away three separate times before he could get his chaotic thoughts in order. "I can barely breathe in this get up. How am I meant to move in this?"

"As you would if you were wearing that second hand reject pile you normally call clothing," he stated dryly.

"One of these days I'm going to punch you square in the mouth."

He tugged on his jacket and poorly hid the fact that he was smiling. "Not today please. I'd hate to get blood on this one. It's one of my best."

John really had no comment for that statement. Not one that wouldn't come out sounding like 'It looks great, let me take it off you.' "It's a little late in the game to be asking now," he responded instead, "but I don't suppose you got me some shoes to wear with-"

Sherlock pointed at John's chair where a pair of probably size eight and a half shiny dress shoes sat. "You're welcome."

"Fucking Prince Charming," he muttered as he shuffled forward to don the shoes. He sat and tried not to be obvious about ogling Sherlock's arse in his black trousers but...well, he was only human. Cocking up his entire life by crushing on the most unattainable man in the world, but still, only human. If he were to take a guess, he'd say the current look on his face mirrored that of a penniless child whose face was pressed up against a sweet shop window. 

"What about my gun?" He asked as an afterthought. 

"Hmm," Sherlock queried in a distracted tone as he adjusted his cuffs. His whole demeanor was slightly off, something about the way he held himself. John looked him over, not to ogle but to access his emotional status.

"I asked about my gun. Are you all right?"

His eyebrows rose. "Yes. Are you?"

"Yes," he drawled, still confused why they were suddenly having 'a moment'. One of those, 'John, you're out of your depth here. He's reading things you can't possibly understand' moments.

"Fine. Good. Are you ready?"

He looked him over again. "My gun?"

"Oh." He flicked his wrist to say 'Leave it.' "We're just this side of fashionably late. Let's not push it."

"You sure? I don't want to end up like our John Doe from yesterday." Gruesome sight, that was.

"You'll be fine, I promise. He's not going to blow his cover in front of London's elite," he stated surely.

John tamped down on the minor panic at the thought of rubbing elbows with London'e Elite. Sherlock would blend in like part of the decor, John would not. They'd smell the middle class desperation on him, he was sure. "Can you at least give me some background on the guy? Or what kind of plan you might have cooked up?"

Sherlock looked out the window. "Cab's here." They grabbed their things and left the flat.

"Well?" John asked. "Do you have a plan?"

They slid into the cab and Sherlock scowled over at him. "It's a perfectly simple strategy, John. You sit and enjoy the performance, I'll spot our killer and inform the police."

He let out a breath of relief. "So Dimmock will have men there?"

"Yes, John. I'm not a complete idiot."

"You've made that abundantly clear from the beginning."

"And yet you still need constant reminding. I suppose it is my fault," he mused, "I can be spectacularly ignorant about some things." Side glare.

John sighed. "Are you ever going to let that go?"

"No," he growled.

John ignored him for the rest of the drive to the Symphony. When they pulled up to Barbican Centre his pulse sped up to the point of making him dizzy. He got out and turned to watch as Sherlock's long frame poured itself out of the cab. His legs, so tightly encased in his bespoke trouser, ate up the distance from the taxi to the front entrance and John's long trained ability to subtly watch him move went right out the window. Anyone watching him would have seen him checking out his flatmate. It was hard to miss, what with his eyes roaming up and down, his mouth practically hanging open. Sherlock held the door open and waited impatiently for him to catch up, which he leapt to do.

"Do try and act normal tonight, would you?"

His head whipped to look at him. "What'd you mean? I'm fine." He wiped his sweating palms against his thighs.

Sherlock looked unconvinced as he followed behind through the doorway. "No, you're obviously not and I don't really care what the issue is, as long as you don't let it interfere with the case. Paste a smile on and just pretend this is Rugby night at your pub." John scowled, ready to respond with a snappy rejoinder but Sherlock hissed. "Lord, save me from mountebank philanthropists."

A man, early fifties, greying, with a sinister brow and crocked teeth, smiled at Sherlock as he approached. "The younger Holmes! How are you, Sherlock?"

"Mr. Davis," he smiled and shook hands with the philanthropist and John marveled again at Sherlock's ability to become a normal human being in short bursts. The man was either a former client, a murderer or someone who had something Sherlock wanted; he wouldn't have bothered putting on the charade otherwise. "Very well, thank you for asking. Have you met John?"

John held his hand out. "John Watson, pleasure."

He shook and smiled, displaying an expanse of much needed dental work. "Ah, Sherlock's partner. A pleasure, a true pleasure. Jeffery Davis."

John blanched. "No. No, I'm a colleague. I mean we _do_ live together but we're just sharing a flat. Flatmates. I'm a Doctor. He's a Detective. I mean, we are friends of course but..." He stopped blabbering when they both looked on with wide eyes. If John weren't already so embarrassed, he'd flick Sherlock's sodding eyebrow back down. _I need a sinkhole, Lord. C'mon, gimme a sinkhole._

"I think what Jeffery meant, John, was you are my partner in crime fighting," he smiled at Jeff, "not in the, um, _romantic_ sense."

"Of course, yes." Jeff nodded and smiled but it did little for the awkward tension. "Sherlock! Will Mycroft be joining you this evening?" His smile grew to the point of looking uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid not. He's got a to do with the..."

John tuned out the rest. He eyeballed the people carrying glasses of champagne and wondered where they were getting them. Could he get his hands on an entire bottle? _Yeah, John, stellar plan. Lower your inhibitions for the evening, no way that could go wrong._

He started when Sherlock snatched him by the arm. He looked down at the pale grip on his sleeve. Oh, he'd been shuffling away unconsciously. He slapped the hand away and scowled but Sherlock ignored him as he went back to explaining to Mr. Davis about Mycroft's likely appearance at the next show.

"Well, do enjoy the show boys. And, please, come more often, Sherlock, I'd love to introduce you around."

"I'd love that," Sherlock shammed. They made their way to the ticket window, where Sherlock took care of getting their tickets, while John stood off to the side and waited. The crowd was making their way upstairs and Sherlock brushed passed John to join them. He was surprised to find their seats were in a semi-private box just to the left of the stage. The view was stunning, he could see the seats below, all of the stage and across to the other boxes. There were twenty or so other patrons already seated and they brushed passed a couple in their late sixties and a woman who could possibly be their daughter to get to their seats. To John's right sat an attractive older woman and on his left was Sherlock. He settled in, did his best to calm his nerves but that was shot to Hell when Sherlock turned to him and whispered.

"Okay, I changed my mind. What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing," he lied. "I'm just nervous about the case."

"Ridiculous," he hissed. "You've taken hits, wrestled and been shot at by men more likely to kill you than our killer and you've never flinched. If anything I'm surprised you're not in ecstasy over the fact that you might get the opportunity to face him without your weapon. So, I ask again, what is the matter with you?"

"Leave it, Sherlock. I'm serious." He stared out over the balcony and refused to back down.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but he was saved by the lights in the theatre dimming. The orchestra started their warm up and Sherlock glared at the interruption. John wasn't going to get away with not answering forever, Sherlock was like a dog with a bone, but the performance bought him some time to come up with an excuse. He couldn't very well explain that he was having inappropriate thoughts about the man that were lurid to the point of distraction. Or worse... _feelings_.

Speaking of distractions, the lights dimmed fully and the symphony started up. The beginning strains started softly, they spun out a beautiful piece that had John's eyes closing and his fingers flexing on the armrest. It took less than a minute for him to fill out along the seem of his trousers. He swore internally, even knowing it was inevitable, it still pissed him off. Luckily it was dark in the box, otherwise everyone would see his condition. The trousers were too tight, the jacket too short to cover anything. It was almost like Sherlock had designed it on purpose to embarrass him. With that thought he turned and opened his eyes to glare at his bastard flatmate. And, oh, what a mistake that was.

Sherlock looked enraptured, with his eyes also closed as he swayed to the music. A little smile had formed, rare in it's authenticity and John had to look away, only to then see Sherlock's long, elegant fingers as they tapped out the beat onto his thigh. He was mirroring the scales of the violin notes. John felt his stomach drop as lust, not just a physical need but an emotional one, slammed into him. He wanted that. He wanted Sherlock to smile, to touch, to play him like he would his beloved Stradivarius. Yes, deny all he wanted, but it was serious now, he was definitely in too deep. His eyes closed to the sensation, but it only served to heighten the strains of music. He was aware he was shaking in his seat but there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it. If only he could get up and leave, make it to the loo, just long enough to relieve himself of the tension. But it was impossible. The way out was lined with people, most notably Sherlock himself, who would no doubt see his condition, even in the dark. He was so mad he could spit. Now was not the time to be having life altering epiphanies, let alone raging erections he could do nothing about. His skin felt too tight and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  
Suddenly, there was a hand on his knee. White hot lightning shot down his spine into his leg, straight to the point of contact. "John," Sherlock had whispered but he couldn't verbally respond. No, his response was to snatch Sherlock by his wrist and wrench his hand away from him. Sherlock hissed and tried to pull away but John couldn't seem to let go. "John," he whispered again, worry and maybe a touch of fear lacing his words.

  
Erection be damned, he jumped up and practically ran for the exit. The patrons huffed at the interruption, one man glared so hard his face turned red, but he couldn't be arsed to care at the moment. In a blind panic he burst from the double doors, received a yell from the guard stationed nearby, which he promptly ignored, and marched down the hall, searching for the stairwell. He took a turn and stopped when he realized he was turned the wrong way round, but before he could reverse directions he was snatched around his middle and hauled into an alcove in the wall. He fought and cursed until a hand slapped over his mouth and a voice hissed in his ear.

  
"Quiet, you complete idiot," Sherlock commanded. "I could murder you myself, I swear."

  
His brow came down, furrowed in his confusion. Sherlock didn't remove his hand.

  
"Do you know who you plowed through to escape the balcony just now? Our suspect, you imbecile. Now, he's seen us both."

  
John pulled Sherlock's hand away from his mouth. "Why didn't you tell me he was sitting with us?"

  
"What was I supposed to say? 'See that man who just sat down? He's a contract killer. Try not to stare.'" He rolled his eyes.

  
John opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted by the doors to the theatre opening. John thought he hadn't even heard the music end or the crowd applaud or anything, but that probably had more to do with the fact that Sherlock was crowded up against him in a dark, confined space. When people started to make their way passed their hiding spot Sherlock let out a rare expletive and hauled John further behind the red drapes that hung over the space they occupied. His thigh brushed up against John's throbbing erection and in a panic John pushed him away. Sherlock windmilled to stay up right and got himself tangled in the curtain. To anyone on the outside looking in it probably looked like they were up to no good, as it was now glaringly obvious that there were people behind the thing. He reached out and pulled Sherlock upright, and held on until he was sure the man was able to stand on his own without support, i.e. touching John's lower half.

  
Sherlock angrily brushed himself off and sent a glare so furious John was sure it had singed his eyebrows. 

  
"Are you quite finished? Sure you don't want to send the man a text message announcing that London Metro is onto him? Maybe help him into a cab so he can escape as easily as possible? You could send his mother a fruit basket with a thank you card for raising such an exemplary individual!"

  
"All right! I get it! I fucked up. Can we go now? He's probably half way through the lobby by now."

  
"Wrong," he snapped. "He walked out right behind you after you left. Why do you think I followed? You'd probably be dead already if you had gone the right damn way. No, he's most likely already gone, so thank you very much for that."

  
"Oh," John mumbled stupidly. "What about Dimmock and his team? Weren't they supposed to be watching?"

  
"I highly doubt they were smart enough to corner him without incident. If they had caught up to him in time, we would have heard the screams by now. He's not the type to go down without a fight."

 

  
John swallowed, shame and horror thick in his throat as he contemplated what he had done. He wanted to be angry at Sherlock for not telling him how in close proximity they were to the man but it was irrelevant. John had still tipped him off to their whereabouts in the first place.

  
"I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean to-"

  
"No, of course you didn't. You weren't thinking. As usual."

  
Well, there went his contrition. He shoved Sherlock out of the way and muscled passed the crowd in the hall. Sherlock called out after him but he ignored it. Luck was with him, as he was swallowed up by the crowd and Sherlock lagged behind. He quite rudely stole a cab from a couple when he made it outside, their shouts of indignation muffled as he slammed the door closed in their faces.

  
"Baker Street," he snapped to the cabbie. It was like he had cotton stuffed in his ears, as they drove on, only the sound of his own pulse as it hammered away could be distantly heard. He threw the fare at the driver and leapt from the cab, determination to be inside, out of the ridiculous tux, and ensconced in his own space fueling his every step. Luck was with him, Mrs. Hudson must have been in bed, as he wasn't accosted as he ran up the stairs. All three flights, he flew up every one, and he didn't breathe until his back was against his bedroom door. He shoved a hand into his hair as the night caught up to him. Failed mission, failed attempt at control over his body, failed to keep his reaction from Sherlock. Yes, he had to know, had to have felt the evidence against his body, even for that brief second. A moan escaped as the memory washed over him, partly in embarrassment and partly from the rush of remembered sensation. Even after all that, every ill decision he'd made, he was still hard.

  
"Fuck it," he cursed aloud to no one. _I've already failed. Might as well finish the job._

  
He pulled himself free from his trousers, and after a thought, stepped out of them completely before he could ruin what probably cost Sherlock a pretty pound. The tension in his frame ratcheted up tenfold once he worked a hand down his length. No satisfaction would come from this, he knew. It was a means to an end. Where he would come out on the other side he had no idea. It didn't matter, not just yet. He worked himself faster, desperate for it to just be over, for even a second of relief from the ache. Memory of Sherlock leaning in, so close he could smell the expensive cologne he wore, surfaced unbidden. He didn't want to think about Sherlock anymore, not when guilt sat so heavy in his gut, but damn if he could stop once he started. He knew what he wanted and he couldn't help seeing it when he closed his eyes. He wanted Sherlock to want him. _Even once would be enough,_ he lied to himself. Damn the man. Why couldn't he be normal? More guilt surfaced at the thought. He didn't want Sherlock to be normal, not really. He was attracted to Sherlock just as he was, not just for his body, but for his spirit, his enthusiasm, his talents, his everything. Christ, he'd never managed to retain an erection through such turmoil before. Why couldn't he maintain this kind of staying power with anybody else? Why did it have to be Sherlock who did this to him? Why couldn't he want John the way John wanted him? He would be so gentle with him, if he'd only give John the chance to show him what it could be like. The thought of teaching Sherlock, coaching him through every act he could think of, how curious Sherlock could be, how willing to learn...It was heady. He leaned over, arse barring the brunt of his weight against the door as the intensity of his sudden orgasm had him doubled up.

  
"Sher..." he whinged, barely able to stop the name from fully falling from his lips as he coaxed the last dredges from his body.

  
A creak escaped the floorboard outside his door and he shot up as adrenaline flooded his body.  _Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh. Busted...


	6. Son Filé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showdown in 221B. Who will be the victor?
> 
> Son Filé- A Sustained Tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't the point of fan fiction to give our guys a happy ending? We all know they both win in the end.  
> That's not to say I'm not going to painfully draw out their misunderstandings and assumptions through the first half though. A lot more angst in this one than you'd assume from a fic that used the word boner in the main summary. Twice.

John didn't dare leave his room. He'd rather climb down the three stories below with his bare hands.

  
Around two o'clock Sherlock started playing the violin, some quiet melancholy piece, and for the first time in two months John didn't react to it. He sat on the end of his bed and stared at the door.

  
 _This is it. He's going to wait, perhaps until the morning, but eventually he's going to come up here and he's going to tell you again that he's flattered but he's not looking for anything. Or worse, that you have to go._

  
He stared off into the dark, only the faint yellow light from the street illuminating his room, and let his thoughts bring him lower and lower. Every dark, awful, hurtful thing he could think about himself and anyone who could be blamed for the turn his life had taken. Even Mrs. Hudson wasn't immune from his mental wrath. Always hinting at them to get together. Each time now seemed like a knife wound. If he had to hear her suggest a cuddle now he'd probably burst into tears. Hell, he even cursed Tim Groban, the kid who'd lived down the street growing up, and John was the one who'd initiated that first experiment.

  
The longer he sat, the more impatient he got for it to be over. Just the idea of going downstairs made him nauseous but he couldn't very well stay in his room forever and it was killing him not knowing where he stood. Calvin was right, bottling it hadn't helped and since Sherlock clearly knew the truth already, or at least part of it, he might as well get it over with. Quick like a plaster.

  
He stood and mechanically stripped the rest of the tux off and donned his own clothes. He did feel marginally better in his jeans and t-shirt again. More on familiar ground at least. It took some motivation just to finally turn the handle but eventually he stepped through the bedroom door. Sherlock's playing had stopped as soon as he'd heard John moving around upstairs. When he got to the sitting room doorway he found Sherlock standing at the window in his house coat, the Stradivarius hanging down by his side. John's stomach was ready to revolt but he pushed passed it and walked further into the room.

  
 _Make tea_ , his instincts cried out helpfully. He rolled his eyes and stamped it down.

"They caught him."

"What?" John blinked stupidly in the dark.

"Dimmock and his men. They caught our killer. Just outside, in the back alley."

"Oh," he replied. "That's good." Hell, he hadn't even given it another thought. Sherlock didn't speak again and the tension heightened to the point of physical pain. 

  
 _Like a plaster..._ He cleared his throat. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  
Sherlock knew what he meant. Without turning he answered, "I'm surprised you do." 

  
"I don't. Not really. But we can't _not_ talk about it, so...Here I am."

  
Sherlock turned from the window and looked at him. "It's me."

  
John licked his lips and tried not to show how affected he was. It wasn't a question, it was a statement, but it still reminded him of a certain fantasy, one in which he reacted a lot differently to finding out than this. He nodded, unable to look him in the eye anymore.

  
"How long?"

  
He worked his tongue around in his mouth, trying futility to wet it, before answering. "That first day, at Bart's. It's only gotten worse since then. Significantly so in the last two months."

  
Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "But...why?"

  
That startled a laugh out of him. "Sherlock, are you fishing for complements?"

  
"No," he answered quietly, "why worse? Did I do something?"

  
"Ah." He lowered his head and jammed his hands into his pockets. He hated Sherlock's curiosity sometimes, but he felt he did owe the man an explanation. He was the one who'd tipped the balance after all, wrecked the good thing they'd had going. He pulled his right hand out and gestured to the violin. "It was that."

  
Sherlock frowned and looked down at the instrument as if he'd forgotten he was holding it.

  
"Long story, I don't want to talk about it. It's not your fault though. It's mine. I take responsibility for that."

  
He looked at the floor and nodded. "I'm not sure what to do in this situation, John."

  
"You and me both."

  
He looked up at that. "You've never experienced this before?"

  
John wasn't sure which part he was referring to so he answered truthfully to all of it. "Not like this, no."

  
"Oh." His fingers flexed around the neck of the violin. "You understand...I'm not equipped to give you what you what."

  
He couldn't help it, his eyes drifted down until Sherlock tightened his housecoat with a huff.

  
"Not in _that_ sense," he snapped. "I mean emotionally. I don't do...this." He waved his hand around.

  
"Why do you think I've tried to keep it to myself? I understand, you told me as much that first night. The only reason we're having this conversation is because you found out."

  
"But you said yourself, it was getting worse. At what point were you going to admit to yourself that you wanted something else?"

  
John looked up at the corner. "Oh, I'd say about three weeks ago."

  
"And you were just going to let it go? Continue to live here and pretend it didn't bother you?"

  
"I guess," he whispered. _Better to have loved and lost..._

  
Sherlock set the violin down and sat on the coffee table. "You would have snapped. You still might, going by what I saw tonight. It's not healthy, John."

  
His fingers clenched and he fought to breathe steadily. "You understand what the alternative is, right?" Sherlock blinked up at him. "I leave. I move out. We don't see each other again."

  
He leaned back and his face slipped into a neutral mask, not unlike when he went away, deep into his mind. John resisted the urge to wave a hand in front of his face just to check.

  
"Can't you just...turn it off?" He quietly asked after a moment.

  
An ugly smile formed on his face. "Yeah, that would be convenient, wouldn't it? Alas, no, Sherlock, I can't turn it off. Despite how bloody awful you can be sometimes I still love you. I don't think that's going to change just because you don't like it."

  
"You..." He blinked steadily for a long time. John got so anxious he thought about shoving him just to get a reaction. Finally he blinked hard and stuttered, "You can't. It's not good, John. I can't be that for you. I'm not-"

  
"Equipped, yeah, I got it. You know what, I'm going to stay at Greg's tonight. I think that would be best." He turned and made for the stairs.

  
"I'm not good," Sherlock whispered from the sitting room. John stopped with one foot on the stair, unsure if he'd heard correctly. When no other sounds were forth coming he continued up to his room. He pulled his old canvas bag from the closet and proceeded to throw a few days worth of clothes inside. His hands were busy shoving them down when he heard it, the first strains of John's favourite piece. He never could remember the name of the thing or who wrote it, some Russian composer, but he knew it when he heard it. Sherlock had played it for him a handful of times, mostly after he'd had a nasty breakup. It was unspoken but he felt like it was as good as a hand on his shoulder or a pint down at the pub. It was Sherlock's version of support and he'd always appreciated it the best. His fist clenched around his flannel shirts and he breathed hard, a futile attempt at holding in his rising hysteria. Why would he do this? Now, after everything John had just confessed to? It felt like cruelty but he'd never known Sherlock to be this unforgivably harsh. He had to know...

  
He rushed downstairs and didn't stop until he was half way across the room.

  
"Why?" He demanded harshly. "You know what that's doing to me, why would you...how can you be so awful?"

  
He pulled the bow across the strings, causing an angry hiss, as he turned. His eyes were red rimmed. "Because you don't get to do this to me and then just leave. It's not fair. I didn't know what I was doing! It's not my fault you felt those things! You can't just change a person's whole self image to suit your needs like this." He whipped the bow through the air. "You'll expect things, things I can't give you, and then when you finally tire of me, this fucked up shell of a person I am, you'll leave. You'll leave me here alone, with less than what I had before you came!"

  
John's heart had never beat the way it was in that moment. "What are you saying, Sherlock?"

  
"I don't know what to do. I can't...I've never done this. I want things to be the way they were, before this." He angrily gestured with the Stradivarius. "It's this things fault, isn't it? You said it was." His fingers clenched hard and John saw in slow motion the decision form, in the tension of his shoulders, the manic gleam in his eye. The instrument was halfway in the air, Sherlock posed to smash it on the ground when John lunged.

  
"No!" He cried out and plowed into the man. His hand closed around Sherlock's wrist and they fell backward into the wall, just missing the table and the open window. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock as John wrenched the thing out of his hand and placed it gently on the table. "Are you mad? That thing is your prized possession."

  
He noticed then Sherlock was breathing hard, a rapid in and out that brushed his front and sent puffs of carbon dioxide over his face. He still had the man's wrist pinned against the wall as well. His gaze slid from their hands to Sherlock's face, specifically his mouth.

  
 _Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it..._

  
He did it.

  
In fact, closing the distance between them was the easiest thing he thought he'd ever done. Sherlock was shocked, to be sure, but he didn't pull away, which was a good sign. There was a clatter and he realized Sherlock had dropped his bow. He let John mold his lips over his, and after a brief 'data collecting' moment, kissed back gently. John whinged and pushed closer. He didn't want to overwhelm the man but his control was on lose reins, it took every ounce of energy not to shove his knee between Sherlock's legs and grind into him. He let go of Sherlock's wrist so he could wrap his arms around his shoulder's and pull him down to a more comfortable level. After another brief pause, in which he decided what to do with his hands, he placed them around John's rib cage. It was a soldiers restraint that kept him from attacking the way he wanted to, but he really couldn't help when his tongue ventured out and tentatively licked Sherlock's bottom lip. He'd wanted to do it for too long, he couldn't help himself. His flatmate responded by taking a deep breath and fisting John's shirt in his grasp. John did it again, licked gently at the seam of his lips and he received a surprised, "Ohh," from Sherlock. Once his mouth opened John took advantage, not too sudden, not too aggressive, but with purpose he investigated further, dipping deeper inside steadily with each pass. Sherlock's tongue lay fairly passive for the most part the first few times he caressed it but after a few more attempts at coaxing he responded. John groaned and Sherlock gripped him hard, his fingers pressed into his sides with the strength of a bear trap. He found himself being forced further and further back as Sherlock chased his mouth down. He was more than halfway in a dip when Sherlock backed up. John laughed at the surprised look on his face. They straightened up and John pushed him back into the wall, one hand cradled behind his head for support, before he continued where they had left off. It was actually Sherlock who canted his hips forward first, and John let out a little surprised squeak. He looked down briefly and grinned.

  
"I knew you were equipped," he said with a smirk.

  
"Stop talking." He gripped John behind the neck and attacked the way John had wanted to since this had started. He groaned into Sherlock's mouth. _I knew he'd be a quick study._ It wasn't long before they were rocking into each other. Sherlock had splayed his wide grip over John's hips and he had wrapped both hands into those silky dark curls. He was careful not to tug too hard, not yet anyway, he'd save that for later. If there was a later. With that thought came the realization that if he fucked this up he'd scare Sherlock off it for life. No pressure there.

  
He pulled back just enough to whisper into Sherlock's mouth, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

  
He blinked down at John. "What?"

  
"I mean if you don't want to go any further than this, that's fine, I'm okay with that. I don't want to overwhelm you."

  
"Overwhelm..." He tasted the word as if he'd never heard it before. "You mean sex?"

  
It took every bit of John's restraint not to laugh in that moment. "Yes. Obviously you know what I'm thinking about here, I just want to make sure we're on the same page. It's all up to you, you just let me know."

  
"Um," he licked his lips. "What do you want to do?" He asked shyly. It was the cutest thing John thought he'd ever seen.

  
He leaned in and planted a kiss on the side of that pale neck. Sherlock moaned and tilted his head back. "I want to do a lot of things, but like I said, I'm not going to overwhelm you with this."

  
"What do you want to do, John?" He asked again, which was incongruous with the way he gripped the back of his neck and forced him to continue kissing him.

  
He pulled away long enough to say, "It would be more prudent to ask what I don't want to do with you."

  
"Okay, what do you not want to do?"

  
"Right now? Have you in an airplane restroom. But only because I don't want to take the time getting on the damn thing. And also it takes a lot of practice to pull that off."

  
Sherlock frowned. "All right. Back to square one. What do you want to do right now?"

  
He didn't even have to think. "I want to touch you." He leaned in for another kiss. "Can I touch you?" He whispered.

  
"You are touching me..." Sherlock responded.

  
John smiled against his lips. He was very cautious as he lowered his hand and slid it in between them. An A.N.A soldier had once taught him how to catch a snake in the desert and this felt just like that, the slow process of trapping a wild creature that could bolt at any second. He tried not to think 'Trouser Snake' and failed. He did manage to not laugh though. Sherlock was still looking down at him with that puzzled look when he gently palmed his erection. His head immediately fell back and smacked into the wall. He took several shuttering breaths but didn't make a move to pull away. John took that as a good sign and continued to mold his fingers around the hot flesh in his hand. Eventually he had a writhing, needy consulting detective gripping his arm and working him faster. John couldn't have been more pleased with the turn of events if the Queen showed up and informed him he was to be knighted for services rendered. Sherlock's legs were shaking and John worried he was about to drop like a sack of bricks.

  
"Should we take this to the sofa?" He asked.

  
Sherlock responded by gripping his hand and squeezing it tighter around the head of his cock. "Don't you fucking move," he growled. John cocked an eyebrow as he continued to work the man but Sherlock couldn't see, his eyes were slammed shut. His breath became erratic and John knew he was close. This would count the second time he'd made a man come in his trousers in less than a month. Not that he was going to tell Sherlock that. He leaned in and licked a strip up the side of Sherlock's neck.

  
"Are you going to come from this?" He whispered into Sherlock's ear.

  
He didn't receive a reply. Not on in the Queen's English anyway. Sherlock swelled in his hand and then cried out, over and over, a stunned keening that was probably heard over the entirety of Baker Street. _Good,_ John thought. He used his left hand to palm his own erection and quickly joined the 'I've just come in my trousers' club. It was too much to expect, watching Sherlock flush and cry out like that, that he would be able to hold out for more than three seconds. They both seemed to nonverbally agree that they would help each other slink down to the floor, where they slumped sideways with a mutual groan of satisfaction.

  
"I did not expect that," Sherlock mumbled after awhile.

  
"Which part?"

  
"Any of it," he said.

  
John licked his lips, suddenly nervous. "You're not mad, are you?"

  
Sherlock blinked his eyes open slowly, still somewhat in a daze and slurred, "About what?"

  
He wanted to remind Sherlock of the part where he'd accused John of completely changing his view of himself, an act that hadn't seemed appreciated before the situation that just occurred. He responded instead with, "Nothing." Let the post coital haze last a little bit longer.

  
Sherlock hummed and ran a lazy hand through the mess of curls on his head. "You said you'd wanted to do that since the beginning?"

  
John blushed. "Yeah," he slowly admitted.

  
"I'm not sure how you got away with keeping that from me."

  
"You were usually facing the other direction when I was looking at your arse."

  
His eyes were closed again but he smiled. "Sound plan. Despite what Scotland yard thinks, I don't actually have eyes in the back of my head." Things grew quiet for a while but eventually Sherlock stirred. "John? Are you going to stay?"

  
"Do you want me to?"

  
"Of course I do." He opened his eyes and John had never seen him look more vulnerable.

  
"Then I'll stay."

  
He gave John a small smile, a bit sad. "Until I drive you away."

  
He'd had enough of that. He scooted until he could roll Sherlock on his back and look down at him from above. "Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. You have done everything in your power, everything humanly possible, to drive me from this flat already. How many people do you think would come home to a severed human head in the fridge and just sigh at you? If there are two people under the sun more suited for each other than us, I'd like you to point them out to me so I can shake their hands." He gripped Sherlock's face, thumbs brushing his ridiculous cheekbones and whispered, "Get this through your skull: I love you, and as long as you still want boring old John Watson trailing behind you, I'm going to stay. Do you understand?"

  
Sherlock pressed his lips together and nodded quickly. John pecked him on the forehead and slumped down onto his chest. After a moment John felt Sherlock lay a tentative hand to the back of his head. He carded his long, musicians fingers through his short hair and John could have purred he was so content.

  
"John?"

  
"Yeah?"

  
"I'm fairly positive I love you too."

  
Warmth bloomed in his chest and he tucked his hands between the floor and the small of Sherlock's back. "Just fairly positive?" He teased.

  
"Yes, well..I'd like to conduct some more research into the whole...physical manifestation of love, if you wouldn't mind. Just to make sure, you understand."

  
So proper. He grinned against Sherlock's chest. "I would be happy to assist you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, I love 'em. Stupid cuddly babies, the both of them. I liked where I ended this one, but I'd like to share my head canon addendum. Sherlock forced John to explain the violin thing, and then to explain it again in greater detail. Sex happened all over the flat after that. To John's everlasting delight, Sherlock learned the art of the blow job in the shower. It's important to act out your fantasies. ;)  
> Shout out to [The Lonely Island](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLnWf1sQkjY) for this fics theme song.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know why 75% of my stuff starts out a cute drabble and then morphs into an epic tear fest, it just does.  
> Indulge my Praise!Kink please! I live off of feedback.  
> And come check this weirdo out on Tumblr at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


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